Page 10 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“What about the gladiatorial part?” she asks after a moment. “How does one go from priest to arena fighter?”
The question touches old wounds. “Not willingly.” My voice hardens slightly. “Temple politics. False accusations. When the choice came between execution that would desecrate sacred ground or being sold to alanista…”
A memory slams into my mind, stealing my attention. I’m standing in chains in the slave market at Capua, my pale skin gleaming under the harsh sun as potential buyers examine me like livestock.
“Turn around, boy,” thelanistaBatiatus commanded, his meaty hand gripping my shoulder. “Show them the markings.”
The crowd murmured as they saw the ritual scars from my temple service, the white lines against white skin creating patterns they found both fascinating and unnerving.
“Touched by the gods,” one buyer whispered.
“Or cursed,” muttered another.
Batiatus laughed, mentally counting coins already. “Either way, he’ll draw crowds. Look at that coloring—like death itself walks among us.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, trying to preserve some shred of dignity as hands poked and prodded, testing muscle, examining teeth like I was a horse for purchase.
The final humiliation came when they forced me to demonstrate my sword work, half-starved and shackled, while wealthy Romans placed bets on how long I might survive in actual combat. That night, chained in theluduswith forty other condemned men, I understood that I was no longer Lucius the priest—I was property, a curiosity to be displayed until the sand claimed me.
I return to the moment and incline my head. “In the arena, my appearance became an asset rather than a curiosity.”
“The Ghost,” she says softly. “I did some research. The pale gladiator who fought covered in white chalk and sacred symbols.”
“You’ve been studying me.” The observation carries no accusation, merely acknowledgment.
“Occupational hazard.” Her lips quirk into a half-smile. “I always research subjects thoroughly before interviews.”
“Is that what this is? An interview?”
“No. This is…” She hesitates, fingers tightening slightly around mine. “This is just us. Two people marked by death in different ways.”
The truth in her tone unsettles me more than I’d like to admit. I’ve encountered many in this century seeking to use my unique perspective for their own purposes. Yet something about her honesty—and her genuine brush with death’s realm—resonates differently.
“I’d like to propose something,” she says suddenly. “The historic Potosi mines. There’s been reports of miners’ voices still heard in the depths. It was what I was searching for when you came upon me last night. I’d like to know what you sense there.”
“You want me to accompany you on an investigation.” The statement comes without judgment. Her enthusiasm doesn’t feel entirely calculated.
“Not for recording,” she clarifies quickly. “No equipment. Just… exploration. The mines have a tragic history—cave-ins, explosions. Dozens of miners lost their lives there.” She leans closer, her scent—something spicy beneath the sweetness of crushed blossoms—briefly filling my senses. “I’ve been therebefore and felt… something. But with your training and sensitivity—”
“You think I might perceive what you cannot.”
“Exactly.” Her excitement is palpable. “These weren’t proper burials with appropriate rituals. If anyone could sense whether these spirits need help to find peace…”
The request touches something deeper than she likely intends. In Rome, tending to those who died violently or without proper rites was among a priest’s most sacred duties. Such souls often lingered, confused and restless.
“Tomorrow,” I say finally. “After sunset.”
Her smile transforms her face, genuine joy breaking through the carefully constructed goth armor-—a young woman who brushed against death’s realm and has been trying to understand it ever since.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing my hand once more before releasing it. “I promise, no recording equipment. Just exploration.”
As she rises to leave, moonlight catches her profile, illuminating the sincerity in her expression. Perhaps there’s more authenticity to this modern death priestess than I initially assumed.
“Until tomorrow,” I tell her, watching as she moves between the headstones back toward her vehicle.
Something stirs within me as her taillights disappear into the darkness—an unexpected eagerness to explore these mines with her. Not merely to sense what might linger there, but to witness how she responds to whatever we discover. In that moment, I realize my interest has shifted from merely assessing her motives to genuine curiosity about the woman herself.
The dead, after all, have been my constant companions for centuries. But connections with the living? Those have become far rarer treasures.
